


A Stash, A Weapon, His Name

by wildhoneypie



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur needs to use his words, Blow Jobs, Dreamhusbands, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Honey, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, RST, Sex Work, Slow Build, Slow Burn, UST, furious ones, half-repressed pining, hiding from bad men, of the back alley variety, poor sartorial choices, quipping as foreplay, the midwest, the mouth that launched a thousand ships, your mouth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 00:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7292950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildhoneypie/pseuds/wildhoneypie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Arthur is incongruously here with him, materializing out of the night, a last fever dream before Eames goes. That makes sense, Eames has a chance to think fondly, and then he’s gone."</p><p>                                                 *</p><p>IN WHICH: Eames tries to find a face that fits, tries to stop hanging out in alleys & wearing tank tops like a slutty DJ, and Arthur? Arthur just tries, really hard, at everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hiding From Bad Men in Cornfuck USA

He’s in Illinois in the middle of a cornfield at midnight and he’s dug himself a little hidey-hole, sheaves of corn concealing him from view, the earth wet and smelling like rain. The air smells like the fire he started, which will hopefully keep them busy for a little bit, before they think to look for the document, and then, inevitably, him. He’ll probably have to sleep the night in the ground. He’s not a prima donna but the cicadas are quite loud and he feels something crawling on his arm. He’s never particularly liked bugs or the outdoors; as hobbies go, he’s more into taking-the-piss-down-the-pub-and-wrecking-shit and the most time he’s ever spent outside was the yearly bonfire his mum had in the back lot of their council estate flat, burning evidence of the latest in a series of failed relationships with a rotating cast of trash-humping single-celled organisms. He liked the bonfires. His mother had called them “cleansing ceremonies.” He’d liked to wear a coonskin cap, make s’mores. A bit festive, his childhood, Eames thinks fondly.

But this: Hiding From Bad Men in Cornfuck USA, is not in his line. Though, increasingly, he knows, it is. The work has gotten bad, kinda dried up, and he’s taken whatever he can get, throwing himself headfirst into stupid situations, walking into a series of increasingly bad rooms full of bad men, getting out, just barely, every time. It’s a skill, he knows: being able to fit in those spaces, look like he belongs. His face, no matter whose face it is that he’s wearing, always looks a little hangdog, a little too pretty and fucked up, a little bit like it wants to be hit. He never could have been a librarian or a lawyer. He’ll never learn how to knit. Men will continue to respond to the invitation of his face—dirtbags drawn to the dirt.

Eames has slowed his breathing and has gone to the part of his brain that allows his body to go dormant, so he’s surprised when the man is on him, pulling off the corn and dirt, two-handed, until he’s got his hands on Eames, fisting the front of his shirt. The bloke doesn’t say anything, doesn’t rifle through his pockets, just starts hitting, and Eames takes several hits to his torso before he gets with the program, rolls to his side, carrying the man with him, trying to get leverage and get out from underneath the guy, who has a good thirty pounds on him.

The man gives a grunt of surprise when Eames lands a knee to his groin, evidently not expecting Eames to fight back, and Eames scrabbles on top of him, getting another punch in. The guy is huge, abominably so. No wonder he didn’t expect Eames’s knee. He’s probably unused to the sensation of someone trying to outman him—you’d have to be an idiot to think you’d have a chance. As Eames is sprinting away, congratulating himself on his above-average instinct for self-preservation, the man overtakes him and pulls him down. The moon is high and bright and the stars are out. He doesn’t have any weapons on him and the man has him pinned, so Eames doesn’t try to fight as the man goes to work on him, focusing instead on what stars he can see and the blood humming in his ears. It’ll be simple, Eames thinks, just like letting the projections take him out. This isn’t a projection, but he stares at the infinite night as the man hits him over and over, waiting for the man to tip him over into the dark. Just like the jump. You’re scared, a bit, and then it’s over. Not even scared—shocked. You were in one place, and now you’re not. You’re somewhere else.

Arthur is incongruously here with him, materializing out of the night, a last fever dream before Eames goes. That makes sense, Eames has a chance to think fondly, and then he’s gone.

*

When he wakes up, they’re at the edge of the cornfield and Arthur is digging a grave in a three-piece suit. It’s still dark. The hulking man, it appears, is dead, and there’s another body lying next to him—the man he’d stolen the document from.

 “Jesus,” Eames tries to say, but it comes out more of a strangled mewl.

Arthur doesn’t stop digging or even look over at Eames when he says, “Don’t try to move.” Arthur is quite efficient and the suit barely looks rumpled—the only person Eames has ever seen who can kill two people and still look like he’s ready for an evening at the theatre. He’s always immaculate. Eames, whose best suits make him look like a louche, possibly even sordid stockbroker, hates that about Arthur. Arthur finishes the hole and with great effort, rolls the men into it. Not even Arthur can make everything look elegant. Eames loses track of time then, and when he comes to, Arthur is crouched next to him, looking down at Eames, keeping his face carefully blank as his hands catalogue Eames’s injuries. 

“Ow’d you get ‘ere,” Eames tries.

“What was that?” Arthur says, “I can’t hear you over the blood.” Eames chuckles and it turns into a gurgle. He spits. More blood. Arthur cups Eames’s jaw in his hand and it’s warm and large on Eames’s face.

“Nothing’s broken, apart from your face. And a few ribs,” Arthur says. “I can’t—you’re going to have to walk with me to the car.” Eames has forty pounds on Arthur.

“No fireman’s carry? The service here isn’t what it used to be,” Eames tries, with effort, and gets rewarded with an Arthur grimace. That particular grimace, Eames knows, is what passes for a smile on Arthur’s face.

They manage to limp back to the car. Arthur’s got a smear of dirt on his cheek and his shirtsleeves are rolled up exposing his forearms and it’s so informal of him that he looks naked. Eames passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly this is a problem wherein I can't stop reading everything that [Helenish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/helenish) has ever fucking written, then it infects my brain with its wit and humor and kindness, and then I start shipping things I never would have shipped.
> 
> You've probably read everything she's ever read. You all have been here longer than I have. Anyway, whatever. It's all her fault. Go read everything she's ever written: she's got a hand in Arthur/Eames, Teen Wolf, she writes searing, perfect Harry Potter fic (her Draco is perfect, deadly dry, sarcastic, and wounded) (HP being another place I normally DO NOT GO), etc. She's great. 
> 
> *
> 
> This fic exists under the influence of the band "Cigarettes After Sex," whose perfect, sexy music sounds like Mazzy Star, if Mazzy Star was a drunk, opiate-addicted Gen Xer with codependency issues and chronic fatigue syndrome. I recommend [I'm a Firefighter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WYARiZkyK8Y)and ["Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R2LQdh42neg) for a start.
> 
> *
> 
> This is unbeta'd because I can. (Or can't, maybe, you be the judge. I don't totally understand possessive apostrophes after names ending in 's', sorry.)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here.](http://wildhoneybears.tumblr.com/) I mostly just shitpost and admire other writers and squeal about omgcp.


	2. What's Not to Admire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I find your formal pajamas charming,” Eames says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have any real notes on this one, I just like to talk to you, imaginary interlocutor. I just drank two Tecates with NO LIME--what is the world coming to--and then I ate a whole bowl of cherries.
> 
> Sup?
> 
> a/s/l?

When he wakes up, he’s in a bed in a nice hotel and he’s wearing Arthur’s suit jacket. Arthur comes in from the bathroom holding a washcloth and the first aid kit.

“My hero,” Eames croaks.

“Your—” Arthur says, and pauses. Then: “Your face looks like raw hamburger.”

“’S rude, Arthur, you’re supposed to rescue the damsel, possibly bugger her if she’s amenable. Definitely not insult her corporeal shortcomings.”

 “Take off your shirt,” Arthur says, and Eames tries to lift a flirtatious eyebrow, then hisses at the pain. Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Show off,” Eames says, then gasps when he tries to sit up to unbutton his shirt and his entire torso complains vigorously. Arthur bats his hands away from his shirt after that and manhandles him, wiping him off with a washcloth and taping his ribs. He gives Eames a pill and Eames begins to feel a bit liquid.

Arthur’s leaning over him, sewing up a gash above his eyebrow, when Eames reaches up to wipe the smear of dirt off of Arthur’s cheek. Arthur flinches.

“Bit of a prude, aren’t we,” says Eames.

“James.” says Arthur. “Let me—” and he moves Eames’s hand down to the bedspread, adjusting his angle so that he can finish wiping the blood off of Arthur’s face with his other hand. His hand pins Eames’s hand to the bed, Arthur’s large warm hand insistent against Eames’s own.

It’s the first time in years that anyone has called Eames by his real name.

“Possible I might vomit,” Eames says. Arthur gets the trashcan and sits it next to the bed. Eames vomits. It’s mostly blood. The world narrows to the blood pulsing behind Eames’ eyes as he leans over the bed, and Arthur’s hand tracing a slow circle on Eames’s back.

**

Arthur sleeps in the bed next to Eames and wakes him up every few hours, probably because he read a pamphlet in a doctor’s office somewhere 15 years ago, and he’s never met a directive he hasn’t been eager to shove up his constipated arsehole.

“You’re a sadistic cuntlicker and your haircut is terrible,” Eames says at his 4:15 am check-in.

“Yes, but I’ve seen you admiring my dimples,” Arthur says.

“What’s not to admire,” Eames says, and means it, and falls asleep. 

** 

In the morning, Eames wakes in a sweaty, apocalyptic conflagration of sheets. Arthur is sitting in an armchair, fully dressed in his somehow still immaculate-looking suit, legs crossed daintily, ankle on knee. He’s staring at Eames.

“I find your formal pajamas charming,” Eames says. He feels like shit; his ribs twinge when he speaks or breathes, his mouth tastes rusty and stale. His face is throbbing and feels pulpy and raw. 

“You’re not to work with Marsh or his affiliates anymore,” Arthur says.

 “All business again, I see. I’m not entirely sure that’s any of your concern,” Eames says.

Arthur’s voice is low when he responds. “Fuck my concern. Eames—you’ll die if you keep doing mob shitwork, it’s dangerous, the money can’t be that good—”

Eames tries to keep his voice light. “Your haircut is truly an abomination deserving of Sodom and Gomorrah-levels of divine retribution, but you don’t see me questioning your life choices, darling.”

 Arthur is suddenly standing. “If you could see your face right now—I could kill—”

“—and, in fact, did kill, with admirable celerity—”

“You and your jokes can fuck right off to whatever boiled-meat British hell you came from,” Arthur says, and walks out of the hotel room. Arthur is rather poetic when pressed.

Eames, because he can’t precisely move, doesn’t. There’s no other option for him to earn cash. It had felt like espionage, at first: all casinos and aliases, gorgeous women in silk, trying on a new face every night, his hands getting faster and faster, his spelling—Cobb would be proud—improved. But the last three jobs have been glorified b&e’s and he keeps leaving rooms feeling like he’s forgotten something in them—a stash, a weapon, his name. He wears his face now like someone else’s, and it’s not just that his beauty stutters like a weak flame lighting his body; it’s not just age. This work has carried him further and further from his most recognizable self, until whatever he is stares at the country that used to be Eames from across a vast, blank divide.

It’s nice, Arthur feeling bad for him, Eames thinks. And then on second thought: Arthur and his patronizing tone and his suit and his dimples—especially his dimples—can fuck themselves.


	3. Hello, Old Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Holy shit,” he says, tracing the outline of Eames’s mouth again. “I—are you even real? Are you something I wished for? Like Peter Pan? Like I maybe manifested you by going to my happy place and thinking really hard about built British dudes who look like they’re getting ready to commit sexy crimes?”
> 
> *

Arthur doesn’t come back that day or the next. Eames lounges around the hotel room, orders room service waffles with real whipped cream and strawberries, then watches hours and hours of Law & Order. After he can manage it, Eames goes back to the casino. His skin is a riot of purple, which pleases Marsh, who sends him, after a week’s recovery, to pose as rough trade and oversee his business interests in a network of alleys and shitty apartment buildings on the outskirts of town. Marsh is certain the boys are stealing from him. 

The boys are wary of him—cagey and jittery. They disperse as he approaches, silent and sullen. But this isn’t so bad, as gigs go. He forgets his posh accent and loses the ends of his words again, wears a too-tight tank top and too-tight pants. A bit like a roughed-up twinky James Dean, only British. He’s still British because the johns love it. The bruises all over him an invitation to a certain type of man. It isn’t hard for him to be the kind of man who would hang out in an alley, jeans slung low, hipbones shining like a beacon from his body into the night. He’s been that man. He’s been that man; he’s been in an alley his whole life, he flings himself at whatever looks like care or distraction or a hole he can throw his time, his body, his life into, been that man, will be that man, is that man right now, gonna melt unless someone touches him, gives him a space to pour himself into. 

The man comes over to him, seeming to step out of nothingness, manifested by Eames’s desire. He’s an inch or two shorter than Eames and blond like a Viking, but wiry, taut and high as bow. 

The man looks up at Eames, considering his face. “You’re too pretty to be out here.”

Eames makes sure not to make eye contact, looking down at the man’s shoes and making his body lax, an ‘S’ curved toward the john invitingly. “I’m only out here because I’m pretty,” Eames says.

The man touches his chin, lifting it so that Eames is looking directly at him. “Honey. Your mouth.” He sticks a finger in Eames’ mouth and slowly removes it, watching it appear again, slick and glistening, with all the wonder of a magician who’s done a fine trick he wasn’t sure he could pull off.

“Fifty for a blowjob,” Eames says, flicking his tongue against the tip of the man’s finger.

The Viking surprises him then by pulling him into a doorframe in the alley and dropping to his knees. Eames is already hard. He’s not aroused. Or, he is. It’s a bit blurry. 

The Viking undoes his flies and palms him, Eames shamelessly pressing his groin into the Viking’s hand. Eames’s head hits the doorframe, and it’s only half play-acting. It feels pretty good. It feels, mostly, like no one’s touched him in a while, and he’d curl like a cat around anyone who’d let him. The Viking’s mouth is on him and then there’s not much but slick heat and the barest outline of the Viking’s skull that Eames triangulates from raking his hand through the man’s hair. The Viking gets himself off, stroking himself in increasingly erratic movements while he’s attempting to swallow Eames whole. Eames doesn’t come, but strokes the man’s jaw, tracing the stubble on his cheek. When he’s got his money and has put himself away, Eames looks at the man, who is staring at Eames, and looks a little agog.

“Holy shit,” he says, tracing the outline of Eames’s mouth again. “I—are you even real? Are you something I wished for? Like Peter Pan? Like I maybe manifested you by going to my happy place and thinking really hard about built British dudes who look like they’re getting ready to commit sexy crimes?”

“You’ve been a peach, love, really,” Eames tries, because the play-acting is over now, and he’d like to be done, “Come back next week, there’s a special on. But now I really must—”

“Listen,” the Viking says, crowding into Eames and looking up at him a little bit cross eyed, “You are hot and all, but I did pay fifty for the pleasure of blowing you, and since I did all the work, don’t you think—”

“That’s all fine and good, darling, but I do think I liked you better when your mouth was full.” Eames uses his lazy voice, the one he uses when he needs it to appear that he’s so bored with the idea of giving any fucks that he’s about to reach the cliff line demarcating consciousness and unconsciousness and fling himself over it, falling immediately asleep.

“Oh, a lady’s work is never done, is that right?” the Viking says, and this time he’s gone quiet and spitting. “Time is money, eh, princess?” It’s all rather boring to Eames—hasn’t he been here before? Hasn’t he said these lines?—until the Viking has a knife in his hand and it’s the shiniest thing in the alley, glinting so that it fairly seems to bounce with all the light it’s collecting. Eames hears a faint ringing in his ears. He’s so close to the man holding a knife to him that he could dip his head just slightly and kiss him. 

And then Arthur is suddenly there, in the alley, knocking the Viking out with a terrific great blow to the back of the head, and watching him crumple to the ground with a truly terrifying lack of emotion on his face. Arthur’s wearing skinny jeans and expensive leather shoes, and his shirt is tucked in. He looks like he’s wandered away from a corporate retreat right in the middle of the trust falls. Eames is pretty sure Arthur is trying for a casual look. 

“Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, by way of greeting.

“Arthur,” Eames says. “How kind of you to pop in.” It should be annoying, it should. Eames had had it, he would have been fine, he’d had 40 pounds on the Viking, he could’ve felled him easily. But Eames finds he’s smiling at Arthur, and perhaps that is—if he really squints and turns his head a bit—could that be a smile on Arthur? A hint of dimple? That’s a dimple. Hello, old friend.

At that moment, the Viking revives enough to bring Arthur down with a cheap kick to the knee. Eames aims a kick at the knife and it skitters away into the dark. The Viking gets a punch or two in before Eames can haul him off of Arthur. Once he does, Eames punches him—good, shitty punches that sound muffled and a bit gurgly when they make contact—until Arthur politely taps him on the shoulder.

“I think the meat is fully tenderized, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says.

“Bugger you,” Eames says, and punches the Viking once more. The Viking moans.

“We might take him to a hospital,” says Arthur.

“Bloody awful idea, seeking medical care for one’s assaulter,” Eames says, but they’re already walking to the mouth of the alley, the Viking supported between them. 

The night is cool and a breeze comes up as Eames and Arthur stuff the Viking into the backseat of Arthur’s car. Arthur is humming to himself, something Eames doesn’t recognize. In the car, sitting next to Arthur, Eames can smell his cologne. It’s something a bit expensive, green-smelling and citrusy, like Arthur is a fantastical wood you could walk into and never come out of. There’s a bruise rising on Arthur’s eye, hot and red. Tomorrow it will have sunk into purples, the blood under the skin rising to the place it was touched, pooling where it ought. Eames does not touch it. 

“You can’t carry a tune,” Eames says.

“It’s a lovely night for a drive, Mr. Eames,” says Arthur, and then they’re off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know, you guys. Do you think Arthur just sits around in his room all day listening to The Smiths and feeling sad about Eames? How many bowls of lucky charms do you think he's stress-eaten?


	4. Social Kissing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I assure you, nothing so nasty as all that, though I suppose Artie might disagree,” says Eames.
> 
> Arthur starts, releasing a wet little cough right into his wine glass. 
> 
> *

Later, they’re at dinner. Arthur had driven to the place without discussion and hopped out at valet. Arthur appears unfazed that he’s entering into a fine dining establishment sporting a rapidly purpling bruise, while Eames is terribly underdressed in a tank top and the slutty jeans he’d worn to stand on a street corner and engage in dubious and ultimately unsuccessful sexual activities for cash. Arthur doesn’t wait to be seated, weaving through the low-lit dining room to a table at the back where a middle-aged woman is sitting. She’s wearing a little fur stole and her hair is tied back in a sleek bun.

“Artie,” she says, and inclines her cheek toward Arthur for him to kiss. “You’re late, and you look like a street tough. And you’ve brought a…friend, how nice.”

“Apologies, Edith. I was detained.” Arthur says, and then, “Edith, meet Eames.”

The woman lifts her hand to Eames, a gesture that might once have sent him into paroxysms of self-doubt, but now he knows to lift the hand to his lips and nearly press a dry kiss to it. The upper classes do love their social kissing.

“Madame, a pleasure.” Eames’s accent is clipped and crisp. He hopes it makes up for the tank top.

“Edith, please dear, or Edie. You do have a Christian name?”

“I’m sure I do, but no one’s used it in years,” says Eames, as Arthur pulls out a chair for him. 

“I suppose I’ll have to call you Eames, then, though I’m afraid it does make you sound like a criminal, or a member of the British Raj.” She smiles over at him, and pours him a glass of wine.

“I assure you, nothing so nasty as all that, though I suppose Artie might disagree,” says Eames.

Arthur starts, releasing a wet little cough right into his wine glass. Serves him right for not telling him the job before they got there.

Eames considers: the stole would normally be a bit ostentatious, but it looks dusty, not sleek with that oily wet shine that well-cared for fur has. The bun is immaculate, low on the neck, hair covering her ears. Pearl earrings glint from beneath the thicket of dark hair. There’s grey in her hair, too, so she doesn’t bother coloring. Expensive lipstick. Eames knows that particular kind of matte nude—if it was cheap, it would be too pink, but it’s not, so it’s designer. The manicure is French, a little old ladyish, perhaps. Overall: too subtle to be nouveau riche. Old money then.

Eames assumes he’s there to charm and distract, since he’s mostly only ever there to charm and distract, when he’s not going relatively invisible and robbing the mark completely blind. She’s feisty, and hasn’t risen to Eames’s barbs, so she’ll want something in conspiratorial (he’ll play Arthur as stodgy odd man out—no stretch there), sarcastic and indulgent: three plus glasses of wine with an after-dinner Scotch. A little ostentatious, because she can’t be, but not gauche. His clothes can’t be helped, but he can do the rest. He leans back in his chair and fixes Edith with his most blindingly roguish grin. 

Arthur is glowering at him a little. Well, let him storm, Eames thinks. It’s not his fault she’s given him a nickname that sounds like something you’d find cheerfully emblazoned on a soup can.

“Edith,” says Eames, picking up a menu, “I’m afraid my French is horrible. It all just goes to ash and horrible glottal noises in my mouth, so you’ll have to order for me.” He scoots his chair closer to her, catches a whiff of her perfume, which is almost certainly Chanel no.19—green and verdant like Arthur’s but with a sharp, metallic undertone. Interesting. The old girl’s got a steel backbone.

When he glances up from where his head and Edith’s heads are bowed together conspiratorially over the menu, Arthur’s uptight Arthurian (Arthuritarian?) features have been schooled into neutrality. There is, Eames notes with some satisfaction, something of the pinched strain about Arthur’s face. His mouth, in particular, is screwed tight as an arsehole.

**

There’s a course of ices after the appetizers, because it’s that kind of place: a place that still believes in palate cleansers, hot towels before a meal, and probably post-gustatory gender segregation in order to promote proper digestion. Edith, or Edie, as Eames calls her now, pops off to the powder room to cover up the blush that comes from having been coaxed into a third glass of wine by a con man wearing a tank top.

The conversation has been steady and light, Eames peppering Edith with questions and asking about her work, which mostly seems to consist of serving on the boards of a number of charities and planning functions for same. Edith politely asks him questions that Eames evades, though he does find himself inventing a brother named Reginald who’s an itinerant mostly-failed magician with a drinking problem. Reginald—Eames leans conspiratorially toward Edith and mock-whispers—is also something of a deviant, what with his penchant for the circus set. Clowns, you know. Acrobats. Enough of a tipple and they’ll do anything for a man in a shabby silk top hat. 

Edith laughs and laughs, going wide-eyed at the right moments, and Eames crows inwardly, because he’s got it exactly right, for once: just the right mix of embarrassed over-sharing, tipping the incredulous Edith right into the palm of his hand, and he knows that this one’s easy: for once, there’s no terrible man with a cocked gun waiting for him in the bathroom, ready to bludgeon him until he rolls over. He glances over at Arthur several times during their conversation, expecting…something, something like jocularity or tolerance, but Arthur is silent and watchful, pushing food around his plate and acting a bit moody. Edith is attentive to Arthur, but is increasingly met with a hostile silence. No matter, though, Eames can carry them both. By the time the ices have been distributed, Eames is feeling a bit purple and puffed with his untrammeled success, which illusion is shattered by Arthur turning on him as soon as Edith has left the dining room.

“What. the fuck. Are you doing,” Arthur hisses, nearly jumping out of his skin with the repressed effort to climb across the table.

Eames takes a sip of water, leans back in his chair. “I’m loosening up the mark, no thanks to you, you humorless American codpiece,” Eames says. “By the way, thank you awfully, Arthur, for dropping me in the middle of a job without a change of clothes or even the merest whiff of what the bloody job entails.”

Arthur stills. “You thought this was a job.” His voice is flat.

“Yes, Arthur, you showed up while I was getting blown in an alley, knocked the bloke out, thanks for waiting until I got paid at least—”

“He was holding a knife to you, what was I—” Arthur splutters.

“—then dragged me forcibly to a restaurant with a Michelin rating, plopped me in this chair and introduced me to Edith, what was I supposed to think? That there was something up, something big enough that you needed me now, something with a big payday.”

“So you thought, naturally, that you’d flirt the giant payday into oblivion? I don’t even know who you are right now. You look like a slutty drug dealer at a Major Lazer concert. You look like a bad decision someone makes after too much tequila.” Arthur whisper-yells.

This is just ludicrous, Eames thinks. Arthur, who made Eames come to a restaurant with linens and seventy forks while he’s dressed like a Muppet, is mad at Eames?

Eames explodes. But in a whispery sort of way. “What is wrong with you, you outrageous numpty? This is what we do: you lead them on a merry chase, I show up at the end to bonk them on the head or obliterate them with sex, we grab the thing, we get out,” Eames has half-risen out of his chair, flushed with the effort of keeping his voice down and feels about ready to punch Arthur, who is, as usual, so intractable Eames might as well be talking to a brick wall. 

Abruptly Arthur stands and moves into Eames’s space. When he speaks, his voice is low and dangerous. 

“Why would this be a job. We haven’t fucking done a job together in a year, if you hadn’t noticed, Eames.”

“Funny,” Eames says, lazy. Now that he knows he’s got Arthur mad enough to hit him, he’s on stronger territory. He’s already won. “And here I’d thought that not working with Cobb meant that I wouldn’t have to hang around humorless prigs with sticks up their arseholes any longer. My mistake.”

Arthur grabs Eames’s wrist then, his face crumpling a little in fury and some other inexplicable emotion. It’s all inexplicable with Arthur: the suits, the emotions that pass over him as quick and inscrutable as weather systems, the cryptic language, the fact that any time Eames is in some dark little hole in the middle of nowhere, Arthur’s there, matter-of-factly maiming someone for him. 

“She’s my mother,” Arthur says, not looking at him. “I took you to dinner with my mother.”

Time slows then, the way time does when you’re embarrassed. Eames isn’t embarrassed, not exactly, but his brain struggles to catch up. Arthur’s standing too close to him, and Eames’s wrist is hot where Arthur’s hand is circled round it, and Arthur’s bruised eye looks as though it’s begun to throb. 

“But…why?” Eames says.

Arthur steps a bit closer then, bringing his other hand up to encircle Eames’s other wrist.

Edith chooses that moment to come back to the table and Eames decides that he needs to get the fuck out of the restaurant.

“Ah, well, it’s been lovely Edith, but I’m afraid I must go,” Eames says.

“No!” and Edith is reaching for him now, a hand on his forearm, “We’ve only just gotten through the first course, Mr. Eames! You can’t.”

But Eames looks at Arthur, who doesn’t look at Eames, and he walk out.


	5. Louche Gentleman About Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _don’t run, you git,_ Eames prays—

Eames goes back to his little efficiency apartment so he can spontaneously combust in private. He’s not sure why he’s so agitated—he feels itchy and restless. It’s not that he’s never flirted outrageously with someone’s mom before (it had been an unofficial extracurricular at college), but something about this is wrong and a bit stupid. 

Arthur knocks on his door past midnight, which Eames knows because the knock is small and clipped and constipated, like Arthur himself, who is standing behind the door with an expression of fury. Eames decides to try for “louche gentleman about town” and see where that gets him.

“We have to stop meeting like this, pet,” Eames says.

“Shut up,” says Arthur, walking in.

 Eames lets him come in, despite the disdain, which, he possibly ought to reevaluate his protocol where Arthur is concerned. “Seriously, darling, I’m beginning to feel stalked, or stalked-adjacent. Do you just slink around after me in your posh suits and lurk in corners, or have you hired someone to monitor me?”

“Yes, Eames, because it’s _so_ hard to figure out your habits, I’ve hired a crack team to monitor each time you leave the house. Gosh, I wish you’d be more ostentatious because the surveillance budget is really eating into my savings.” Arthur’s voice is low, furious. He’s pacing the room now, and Eames sits on the bed, willing to let Arthur do whatever he needs to do to run out of steam. He shows no signs of stopping. “You might think about making it a little easier for the agents to find you—oh, I know! What if you only wore too-small neon tank tops that said “Basic Bitch” on them? Or insisted on smoking hideous cigars? Or what if all of your forgeries were slightly misspelled? Or what if you left a trail of half-undressed women and sexually confused men in your wake? Are you fucking kidding me? You’re about as subtle as the Goodyear blimp.”

“I wish you’d reconsider that simile, darling,” Eames says. “One doesn’t know, quite, the power of figurative language to actually influence reality, and as I work rather hard on my physique, I’d prefer not to tempt fate.”

Arthur’s standing stock still in the middle of the room now, staring Eames down, and all of a sudden he laughs. “You just can’t be bothered to give a shit, can you? About any of this. It’s fine to throw yourself into shitty situations, to let dickholes fuck you up in an alley. It’s fine to nearly die, night after night, and avoid people who actually give a shit about you, who think you’re brilliant, who _don’t_ want to bugger you just for the novelty of touching someone who looks, who looks like—” Arthur says ‘bugger you’ in an appalling accent.

“I’m sorry,” Eames says, unsuccessfully stifling a laugh, “was that a supposed to be a British accent because actually I can’t tell if you’re trying to sound like a toff or if you’re doing some kind of inept Australian—”

“THAT IS NOT THE POINT.” Arthur hisses, and then Eames’s brain catches up with him.

“What do I look like, Arthur? What is it that you think I look like?” Eames says, quiet. Arthur looks a little frightened, all of a sudden. All of a sudden he stands stock-still, looking like a rabbit caught in a headlight, trying his best to turn into a statue, his heart beating almost audibly.

“It’s not like…that,” Arthur says. “I just thought, if I kept you next to me…there would be less opportunities for you to die.” And Eames stands, something in him galvanized by what Arthur’s saying now, though he still doesn’t quite understand. It has never occurred to Eames that Arthur might want him. Meanwhile, Arthur is stuttering, mortified, not meeting Eames’s eyes, “It’s not like I, like we—my mother doesn’t think—”

Arthur shutters some part of his face and starts for the door then, and Eames starts talking—“You’re right, it’s nothing, it’s nothing, pet, I’m sorry…”—if only to get the rabbit that is Arthur and his animal heartbeat to quit running away, just for a second. Eames crosses to him and grabs him then, catches Arthur with his hand on the doorknob, Eames’s front pressed to Arthur’s back, his arm snaking up and across Arthur’s chest like Eames is a lifeguard carrying an inept swimmer to shore. Arthur struggles furiously against him for a moment until Eames’s other hand begins undoing Arthur’s belt. Eames’s hand ghosts over the top of Arthur’s boxers and Arthur’s already half hard, probably just from the act of yelling at Eames, because no one does something that much unless they really, _really_ like it.

“Eames…” Arthur whispers. 

“Arthur, sh sh sh, there’s a love,” Eames says, and takes him in hand. Arthur’s low little gasp. His knees buckle just slightly and Eames moves them forward so that his hand comes off of Arthur’s chest— _don’t run, you git,_ Eames prays—to brace them on the wall. Eames begins stroking Arthur in earnest now and Arthur’s body is pressed up against him, a long line of sinuous, pissy architect molded to the front of him. Eames buries his face in Arthur’s back to stop himself from smelling his neck, licking the space behind his ear, but Arthur smells of that verdant cologne, and it smells like grass and metal and fucking your life up. Eames finds he’s hard and grinds a little bit into Arthur’s clothed ass, which movement makes Arthur drop his head onto the wall with a swift little intake of breath. Then, unable to stop himself from looking, Eames hooks his chin over Arthur’s shoulder and finds that Arthur’s eyes are screwed shut, a look of desperation on his face.

Eames was 14 the first time he kissed a boy. Reg, who’d waited for him after school and had cold-cocked Eames for calling him sweetheart in maths class, then tackled Eames when Eames, laughing through the blood, had told him if he was that desperate for a rub n’ tug, all he had to do was ask. Eames had wrestled Reg under him, and when he’d had him pinned, had kissed him furiously, like a punch, fully expecting to be hit back, but Reg had clutched at Eames’s shirt and whispered _aw you fuckin’ daft cunt_ and kissed him back until they both lost it in their pants. The next day after school Reg hit him, almost tenderly, until he broke Eames’s cheekbone. Whispered _alright then, bruv?_ and pushed the hair back from Eames’s shattered face, and walked away. It’s mostly like this, Eames has found. He expects both a kiss and a punch and then he’s never surprised.

Should he speak. This is what Eames considers as he’s jerking Arthur off luxuriously in his shitty efficiency apartment, as Arthur keeps his eyes closed and cuts off every whimper before it’s had a chance to escape his mouth. The question is whether or not Arthur will run if forced to confront his dick in Eames’s hand—or rather, Eames talking about Arthur’s dick in his hand, since Arthur seems to have a pathological allergy to finishing conversations without storming off into the night. Eames weighs the risks and decides he’s got a good enough rhythm going that if Arthur really doesn’t like what he says, it will still take an inhuman act of willpower for him to walk away.

“Christ, Arthur, you smell gorgeous,” Eames says, low, whispering almost.

“Yeah?” Arthur gasps, “You smell like a carnival ride,” and when Eames responds by grinding into him Arthur groans a choked off—“ _James._ ”

“I’d like to do terrible things to you, Arthur, really I would—you’re so fucking sweet I can’t bear it, I’d like to _ruin_ your suit—”

 Arthur seems to be settling in for a speech, “—You’re a sociopath, Eames, you really—” but then Eames nuzzles his neck, laughing, and presses a soft, open mouthed kiss to the place just behind Arthur’s ear, upon which Arthur suddenly goes completely silent and comes all over Eames’s hand, his own shirt, the wall and the shitty industrial carpeting.

 “I knew those suits were bordering on a sexual fetish,” Eames says, and takes off his tank top to wipe Arthur down.

“Don’t touch me with that thing,” Arthur protests, “I don’t want to contract a disease,” but he’s leaning against the wall and facing Eames and he looks sated and lazy, like a cat who’s eaten all his dinner and expects a belly rub as a reward, and so Eames mops him up without any bloodshed.

“Oh, look at you, what a mess,” Eames croons at him as he mops, “I can’t wear this back to the alley, darling, look what you’ve done. Even prostitutes have sartorial standards. Though maybe ‘tank top covered in the ejaculate of one of corporate America’s premier agents of espionage’ is a tick in the plus column for some of those degenerate johns. The clientele,” he calls as he heads to the bathroom, "is not picky."

When he gets back, Arthur is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby's first hand job scene. Be gentle.
> 
> also the sentence "grass, and metal, and fucking your life up" is a Sady Doyle quote, from her brilliant perfume blog, [Doyle Smells](http://doylesmells.tumblr.com/post/48894464471/smoking-animal-smells-and-perfume-evil), and it's used to describe Chanel No. 19, which I guess is now my headcanon for the perfume that Arthur wears, because he is a badass and would have a signature scent that is slightly bitchy whilst being simultaneously helplessly inept in a control freak sort of way.
> 
> I am Eames-levels of shameless about your kudos and comments so if you have a yen, please do leave some love. I'm on tumblr here: [wildhoneybears](http://wildhoneybears.tumblr.com/). Hi.


	6. Dream Toaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames feigns interest in the grain of his desk. “I gave him the best hand job of his life and he smoothed his bloody suit down, walked off into the sunset, and never called or so much as sent flowers or a conciliatory toaster.”
> 
> ***

It’s six weeks before he sees Arthur again. Arthur, who previously followed him into whatever hidey-hole he’d hidden in, Arthur who hurt anyone who’d tried to hurt him. Arthur who’d left Eames’s place still covered in the ejaculate from the quietest orgasm known to man. Arthur who’d fucked off without a trace to who knows where.

Eames imagines him powering down in some impeccably decorated condo somewhere, moving only to lube up his joints with an old timey oil can, but that’s not quite fair, he knows. There’s something inherently anti-robotic in the way Arthur turns toward Eames wherever Eames is, whatever Eames is doing. Phototropic. Someone’s the sun, someone’s the plant. Before, Eames might’ve thought he was the sun in this extended metaphor, but after six weeks expecting Arthur around every corner and being disappointed, Eames is less sure. There’s something about his body that feels a little sickly and starved. His skin hurts a little, chafing against his clothes, the world; things that once felt easy feel hard now. Pop songs are terrible, also. He can still recognize they’re terrible, but now some hideous creature whirs to life in his chest every time some shitty singer begins to scream-wail about lost love. The creature _wants._

 _It’s not, though?_ Eames thinks as he makes coffee in his shitty flat. _It’s not love._ It was, at most, some overinvested stalking aided by a truly terrifying misuse of advanced surveillance technology, followed by a mostly-silent hand job during which he and Arthur had avoided eye contact as much as possible. Even so, Eames is still experiencing aftershocks from the feel of his cheek pressed against Arthur’s, that cologne he wore, the gorgeous noise he made being touched by Eames. Eames has never been particularly clear on how to identify his own desires to himself, tending instead to go along with whatever someone else wants and figuring out afterwards if it was pleasurable for him. Too many years wearing someone else’s face. Too many years spent using his own body to get what he needs, instead of using it to get what he wants. How to want. How to listen to one’s form. Is there something the body knows that he might not.

There had been a brief moment immediately after The Handjob Incident, (before Arthur had left him, before they’d said anything, Arthur panting in short, shallow breaths like a skittish horse,) when Eames had taken his hand off the wall and moved it slowly down the front of Arthur’s chest, memorizing Arthur’s body with his hand, just smoothing him, gentling him for a minute before he’d run to the bathroom— _stupid, stupid, you let him get away—_ and had clenched his hand in the fabric of Arthur’s shirt, pressed his body to Arthur’s, inhaled and snuffled into the space behind his ear. It was the most intimate thing he’d given another human in years.

And he had given it to Arthur, and Arthur had left.

Dom called during week five of what Eames was unofficially calling the Lamentable Arthur Watch, and Eames—though he hadn’t worked with Dom in a year, preferring to avoid the homicidal projections of his boss’s ex-wife—had taken the job. Anything absorbing. The longer the better. Anything to get out of his body.

Though if he’s honest with himself, it was more than that. Eames hadn’t worked a job with Dom in a year, doesn’t miss the feeling of sinking under, doesn’t miss the glamour, doesn’t miss getting taken out by Mal. The last time he’d been in Dom’s dream Mal had driven an ice pick into his hand before Dom could stop her, something like “Give him to me,” whispered in French, her hoarse voice hovering underneath the pain. Eames had stared into her face, screwed inward, attending to the black hole she nursed inside of herself—he could not bear to look at her too closely, this apparition who was Mal and not-Mal. This creature who wore the lovely Mal like a suit. He’d kicked her, a cheap kick to the knee, and scrabbled away, holding his hand to himself like a wounded bird. Her answering furious cry was an animal yowl. The way Dom’s brain hungered for Mal, for the part of itself Dom had murdered, was too much. Eames had never had it, but he suspected that was the kind of love you didn’t come back from.

Safer, then, to stay away from Dom while Dom insisted on courting his inevitable death, circling around it longingly, dipping a toe now and then into the black. Better to stick to the alleys where the demons were the kind of banal evil that could be taken out in this world, that wouldn’t come back, over and over, preternaturally strong, beautiful, and fueled by the white hot flame of Dom’s self-loathing, a renewable resource that showed no signs of being depleted. He didn’t relish, either, the type of forging that required him to step into another body. It was too much now, as he got older, spent longer in solitude, watching the headlights move across the walls of his apartment like beacons. He was afraid he’d forget his face.

But it had been week 5 of the Lamentable Arthur Watch and Eames had punched one john: slim, brown-haired, ill-tailored pants, who had called Eames worthless, and Eames was no closer to finding out who was skimming Marsh’s money, and Eames had fumbled a small card-counting con for Marsh, to which Marsh had responded by giving him two broken ribs and the week off, with a promise that if his morale didn’t improve Eames could expect more.

Dom had sounded distant on the phone, as if he was speaking on the other end of a tin can. Eames strained to hear him, which was the point—Dom’s power plays became more pronounced the more he needed something from someone.

“I’m sorry, darling—it sounded a bit like you just said you have a job that needs to go down in two weeks, but that can’t be right, can it?”

When Dom spoke, he sounded as if it pained him to repeat himself, staccato and clipped, “Eames. We lost our forger. I know you’re out but I wouldn’t ask unless it was important…Arthur said you might need the work and Yusuf’ll be home base so there’s less chance that Mal…”

“Arthur’s there?” Eames had interrupted, despite himself. An image of Arthur had arisen, unbidden, to his mind—Arthur flushed, angry, rolling his sleeves up, exposing the pale expanse of milky skin, Arthur’s strong forearms.

“Yes, and I know what you’re going to say, but he’s the best we’ve got and it’s not like you can really—” 

“I’ll do it,” Eames had said, and hung up before Dom could question him. He’d gotten the details within an hour, a standard militarization test, not meant to last more than a day, with a week of prep. Dom had been right: simple. 

When he gets to Prague, though, Arthur’s nowhere to be seen, and Dom, Yusuf and Eames plan on their own, Ariadne constructing models, Eames doing the sweaty work of forgery alone. It’s a standard psychosexual seduction. He’s the bait, the libidinal chum scenting the waters: a slim blonde, pixie cut, freckles peppering every inch of available skin. Something out of a Truffaut movie, completely obvious and easily exposed by the subject’s projections if the security firm they’re working with has done their job.

Every once in a while, Eames shows up to work and Dom is leafing through a giant accordion folder’s worth of research. Arthur is here, somewhere, pissily working out all the details—it’s clear in the research, and in the way Dom asks Eames, the day before the job, to please change his bait’s outfit: he’s not allowed to wear ballet flats, a striped shirt and a parasol, this isn’t a reenactment of the beach scene from _Jules et Jim_.

“Our guy is a corporate wonk who played sport at a state school; he’s never heard of the French New Wave, and you ought to tell Arthur to come face me like a man,” Eames replies, trying for lazy but coming up tryhard.

Dom looks at him curiously. The head tilt of a man who knows he ought to ask, but would rather not. “He’s…otherwise occupied. What did you _do_?”

Eames feigns interest in the grain of his desk. “I gave him the best hand job of his life and he smoothed his bloody suit down, walked off into the sunset, and never called or so much as sent flowers or a conciliatory toaster.”

Dom takes off at “hand job” with a look of mortification and is still speeding toward the exit as Eames calls, “Tell him he hurt my manly feelings and besmirched my virtue, Dom. Tell him he’s a wanker!” 

**

And then it’s the day of the job and they’ve all been in-dream at least once, Eames slinking around in his sundress, practicing his purr. Arthur still hasn’t shown his face to Eames. He assumes Arthur’s been here—the music playing is a bit Arthurian, probably Brian Eno?, Eames thinks. And even though Ariadne and Yusuf have spent the most time in-dream, the place smells of Arthur, feels of him. It’s all rich leather, dark wood, the bar where he’s waiting for the mark is oiled and mahogany colored, and Eames’s girl is a bright sunshiney thing in the midst of all this rich masculinity. He sticks out. He’s a flood of sunlight in the sedate velvets and leathers. It feels as though the place has been constructed to show him off.

He’s waiting at the bar as they rehearsed. Any moment the subject will show up in his corporate wonk suit, and Eames’ll flutter his eyelashes at him, get the wonk to buy him a drink, and then he’ll attempt to extract the word the security firm has chosen to represent the sensitive information. If the firm has done their job, the whole masquerade will end with Eames getting a gun to the head.

Suddenly Arthur is there at a bar stool to his left, smelling of that green smell, suit practically glowing in the unreal light of the dream. Eames’s internal alarm bells begin ringing; if Arthur’s here, it’s all gone wrong. Externally, his girlsuit is relaxed, putting on lipstick, scanning the bar behind her in the mirror of her compact. The subject isn’t here yet. Sunk into a battered leather love seat in the corner of the bar, Dom is studiously avoiding his gaze, reading a newspaper, drinking a Tom Collins.

“Come here often?” Arthur says, looking at him in the bar mirror in front of them. 

“I’m not interested,” Eames says, and meets Arthur’s eyes in the mirror.

“Come on, have a drink. Spare my manly feelings,” Arthur says, signaling to the bartender.

Eames feels his cheeks pink up at that, cursing the blush he’d practiced for a week. Saucy little fucker.

Arthur pushes a whiskey soda over to Eames. “That’s very pretty,” he says, voice low, eyes still on Eames in the mirror above the bar. “I bet you practiced that for days.”

“This really isn’t the time, darling,” Eames says, finding that he desperately wants to lick Arthur, and resisting, just barely, by averting his gaze from Arthur’s face and his cocked eyebrow.

“Dom gave me your message,” Arthur says.

From the corner of his eye, Eames sees a beefy corn-fed man in a suit make his way over to the bar. It’s the wonk.

“Come to rub it in then?” he hisses at Arthur, “You got what you wanted, yeah? A little post-work rub n’ tug? Go away, you constipated prat,” Eames says, and turns his back to Arthur, gulping the whiskey down.

There’s a scraping sound as Eames’s drink is pushed to the side to make room for a…what appears to be a toaster. Sprouting poppies.

Eames whips around to look at Arthur, who’s staring at his hands, and then he’s saying, “I didn’t know if you’d rather have the conciliatory toaster or the flowers,” and then Eames is standing in the vee of Arthur’s legs and his girl is kissing him, her hands on the side of Arthur’s face, and then her arms encircling his neck, pressing impossibly close to him, and then Arthur’s hand is coming up and he presses the gun to Eames’s temple and 

When Eames wakes up, gasping for air, Arthur is just coming up, yanking the IV out of his arm, stalking over to Eames, yanking out his IV— _Fucking hell, Arthur,_ Eames gasps—and hauling Eames to his feet, brushing him off, smoothing Eames’s clothes, and all the time he’s talking, “You’re not to work with Marsh anymore, we’ll find you something else.”

“You fucking ended me, mate,” Eames says, trying to catch up, and failing.

“Don’t call me mate,” Arthur says. “I’m sorry Mr. Eames. As fetching as you were, I don’t like women.”

“Are you—” Eames is almost on the point of making an articulable thought when Arthur interrupts him.

“I’m not a fucking john, Eames.” Arthur sounds angry now, “You don’t get to do that to me anymore—touch me and then shove me away like I’m going to hit you, and _then hit first_ , like you have to preempt me firing on you, when _I would never—_ ”

“I want a real toaster,” Eames interrupts.

“You—what?”

“I want a real conciliatory toaster, not some dream toaster you had Ariadne make two seconds before you decided to declare your undying love for me. I want real toast, none of your poxy dream toast,” Eames says, and steps into Arthur, and buries his face in Arthur’s neck, and doesn’t let go, not when Arthur’s arms circle him, crushing Eames ever closer into Arthur’s body, like they might yet become one person, and not when Dom wakes up, two minutes later, yelling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give me love, if you feel like it! 
> 
> I'm on tumblr @extremelycalmhoneypie.


End file.
